


Scraps

by Opera142



Category: Professional Wrestling, Total Nonstop Action Wrestling
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opera142/pseuds/Opera142





	Scraps

Title: Scraps  
Author: Opera  
Disclaimer: Characters mentioned herein are property of TNA or WWE. No insult, slander, or copyright infringement intended. No profit or financial gain will be made. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured.  
Characters: AJ Styles, Christian Cage, mentions of Jim Cornette, Chris Jericho, Christopher Daniels, Kurt Angle, Tyson Tomko, Alex Shelley, Edge, Undertaker, Samoa Joe, Vince McMahon, Dixie Carter, most other wrestlers named Chris, most TNA wrestlers circa 2007, most Canadian wrestlers circa 2007, a promoter who ain’t ever going to call it the WWE.  
Summary: AJ always imagines the worst.  
Warnings: 1999 fic. Sorry. No porn, sorry about that too. Swearing and (im)mature dialogue (including the c-word and unkind terms for mentally and physically challenged children and prolonged unkind, ableist discussion of those kids with not-so bonus ally fail); use of the term “gyped”; brief, non-judgmental mention of Chris Benoit, brief mention of dead wrestlers, frank discussion of m/m and m/f sexual relations, religious themes and discussion. Smarkiness.  
Continuity: Circa autumn 2007 for both TNA and WWE.  
Note on warnings: Christian gets the South Park episode wrong. He does not have a second career in recapping ahead of him.  
Notes on continuity: Obviously lots of this has been proven wrong over the past 5+ years. Jericho went to WWE, and Harris *was* the chosen Chris. Christian headed back to the E. Jericho took up dancing. Good thing these characters are wrestlers instead of fortune tellers.  
Thanks: Twig for unintentional advice. RedFiona for sorting out all the messes I make of prepositions. 

 

　  
　  
　  
Pop Tarts never got anyone closer to Jesus, but AJ showed up every morning for breakfast anyway. Starting each day off right with a meal and a prayer was what decent folks did. No matter if the praying had to be done from a sticky seat on an airport shuttle. No matter if breakfast had to be a mashed MetRex bar fetched from the bottom of a gym bag.

On those shorted-on-breakfast mornings, AJ prayed full blast. Head bowed, eyes shut, hands steepled, heart devoted. This morning he made do with a quick bringing together of fingertips, a wordless moment of gratitude and blessing. Praying inside a diner usually brought out snickers, and snickers brought out the proselytizer in him, and proselytizing brought out the argumentative side of everybody. AJ figured God didn't want noise so early. Neither did he. All he wanted was this plate of eggs before him. Three of 'em, fried in butter, yolks shiny as the sun, served with brown-sugar ham and jelly-slathered toast.

He slid his silverware aside and flicked the toast through the fattest yolk. It came up wearing gold. AJ looked away. He slunk low in the booth, tilting his weight off his banged-up hip, and this time he dunked the toast in his coffee. Nasty tasting, but his grandpa had eaten his toast like that, and AJ dunked sometimes in remembrance. Steam from the coffee fogged the window beside him. His reflection developed amid the fingerprints and smudges. No features, just a ghost face and a hump of muscle rising off his shoulders. Wispy sunshine caught his necklace, casting thin golden light over the table, over the sugar packets and the salt shaker.

Even his reflection was on his case about gold. It must have gotten the memo from his dinged-up pride. He set to scarfing his food before the eggs could squawk about his dissipating push and the ham could hound him about the fact that the only gold he carried in the past six months was the cross around his neck, and his fork could turn on him, pointing and laughing, guffawing with newfound buddies around the diner. “Carrying gold might get in the way of carrying Christian’s bags.” 

His eggs went to mush as he chewed and chewed, unable to swallow down that shame. He’d made it past a dozen bigger names. Nash, Steiner, Sting, Angle. They had come in, gussied up in the latest mid-life crisis gear: bleached goatees, wrap-around sunglasses, low-hanging wallet chains. AJ dutifully slogged through their hangers-on, introduced himself even though he worked with most of them in WCW. He shook their hands, welcomed them to TNA, then went right back to minding his own dreams. 

Dreams he yielded up as a sacrifice that night at Genesis when he stood behind the curtain with half the roster, watching Christian’s debut. He felt Christian’s spotlight bright and hot upon his face, and in that moment, his ambition curdled. His dreams hardened, crackled and broke. His pride howled, no longer content with tending his own pale, flickering spotlight. He wanted Christian’s.

He wanted Christian’s spotlight, to stand beneath it, sweat-stained and triumphant, holding aloft the gold so rightfully his. Gold that Christian would hold by the next pay-per-view. He wanted the belt and he wanted to beat Christian for it. 

More than that, he wanted to be cheered for snatching away the glory held by Christian. He’d been with TNA when it was barely out of Jarrett's basement, when Christian and Kurt Angle still toddled around WWE's overpaid playpen. TNA was his promotion. The belt was his right. 

Guilt burned inside of him, as bright and hot as Christian’s spotlight. His longing for gold was not pure, a backslide on the climb to Jesus. It was not a human failing—laziness, impatience, self-doubt, fear. It was not a simple evil-- poor sportsmanship or puffed ego or plain and ugly greed. It was jealousy. Coveting. The worst sin. Had to be. No bones made about it in the Ten Commandments. Murder got lip service. Rape got a pass. Coveting came with a flowchart. Rubrics, asterisks, footnotes. Stipulations for neighbors’ wives, male servants and sure-footed asses. 

Covetousness wormed under his ribcage, and cuddled right up to his heart. AJ did not seek to cast that sin out. Instead, he kept it warm. Nurtured it with jealous thoughts and dwelled-upon suspicions. It put a metallic taste in his mouth and turned his spit to mercury. It made his words as false as a golden calf that night as he barged through the throng pressing around Christian. He stood touching elbows with Alex Shelley and Scott D’Amore, and offered to buy Christian an after-show beer. 

Christian eyeballed the lot of them, calculating of the worth of each pitch. He shook AJ’s hand first, “Looking forward to it, man.” 

They shook hands again before Christian moved on to give Alex Shelley the once-over. He glad-handed everyone, then called back to AJ. “Let Rhyno know where we’re going.”

AJ nodded, turning away from a side-eyed looks from Daniels. Like he’d need to tell Rhyno anything. Rhyno wasn’t going to be anywhere Christian wasn’t. No one in this locker room was skipping the bar tonight.

Later, at the Alehouse, Christian picked a small table in the middle of the floor. They sat, Rhyno, Shelley and AJ. Christian chose the chair that put his back to the kitchen. He stretched out, his foot settling onto the seat of the lone empty chair, his hand coasting across Alex’s shoulders, fingers skimming the hemline of Alex’s t-shirt. 

A waitress brought the three of them their usual beers, and when she came back with a Molson for Christian, AJ paid her for the full round. That murdered twenty bucks. Christian toasted the waitress then handed over his credit card and told her to start a tab. 

They drank. Christian kept watch over the other tables, especially, the tables with production staff. He didn’t dig for details on anyone other than to ask where Angle was hiding out. Alex snarked about half the locker room. Rhyno brayed with laughter anytime Christian chimed in. AJ snuck glances to his usual table. Sabin was in AJ’s spot. Daniels sat with his back to AJ. 

The beer made him dry-mouthed, and after three of Christian’s Molsons, his gums went numb. His tongue felt as fat as an otter. A headache spread across his brow and he wished the floor manager would turn down the music. 

He went quiet. Nothing he’d say would come out clear anyway. Besides, the beer made Alex all hands, and those hands hogged Christian’s attention. AJ fidgeted as much as he drunkenly dared, hoping they’d wait until they got back to the Doubletree before co-mingling. 

Alex, at least, offered honest lust. AJ hadn’t befriended Christian out of kindness and fellowship, he sold Christian false friendship so he could siphon a little of his spotlight. Unlike so many superstars before him, Christian hadn’t come in broke-down and busting out of his Spandex. AJ respected him. The man was a peer. And still, AJ wanted to take all that was Christian’s. The spotlight. The gold. 

The night tainted all his true friendships, the way he laughed and joked and gossiped just as easily with Christian as he did with those who mattered. Early on, Sabin left with Dutt. AJ’s chair waited for him, but he hung with Christian until last call, later even. He ducked out on his Back to the Hotel Posse, waving on Daniels and Lethal and Young, telling them he’d be up to the room in a bit.

Instead of a Sunday night round of Name That 90’s Band and an in-joke filled walk to the Double Tree, AJ stood around in the empty parking lot of the Alehouse, waiting on Christian to finish up on a drunk dial to Angle. Then he played pack mule, guiding a wasted Rhyno along the sidewalk. They had plenty of room for their veering. Christian and Alex only used the space of one, the way they were rubbing and crawling all over each other. In the lobby while they waited on an elevator, Christian, droopy-eyed drunk, his hand tangled in Shelley’s hair, slurred at AJ. “When I get gold, you get the first shot at me.” 

AJ readily agreed, knowing that first match he’d job. Job like the mat and his back were carrying on in secret. But he’d have twenty-five minutes in a main event spotlight before the three-count and he would have an opponent who was lithe, angry, and driven to show McMahon he could be a money champ. They’d wrestle a tremendous match; one so good the office would want to milk the accolades over a series of PPVs. Record-breaking PPVs. Christian’s ego would rise, along with AJ’s star. TNA would have its franchise feud. 

The fanboys would have a rivalry to take sides over, the keyboard warriors would blog themselves fingerless over him and Christian, six-star matches and thank you for the wrestling. Most importantly, as much as they loved chanting for Christian now, when forced to choose The Impact Zone regulars would get behind the TNA native. The only pay-off would be AJ taking the title. 

Christian would lose nothing; AJ would gain everything. 

All of that hung on Christian keeping his word. Which, right now, Christian didn’t seem real bent on doing. So far allying with Christian pretty much involved getting on Kurt Angle’s bad side, wearing chicken suits, and waiting behind dumpsters with Tomko. 

So much waiting behind dumpsters Title matches were not held behind dumpsters. Half the time, there wasn’t even a camera crew out there, half the time no one but him and Tomko were out there.

AJ didn’t see the gain to be had. Less and less, did he see gain in anything but wearing gold; less and less did he see any value in staying patient through the years for a business that ran day by day. He used so much heart just getting this far. He wasn’t sure how much was left for the long haul. He came from a weak breed. He was the issue of men prone to sloth and rancor and addiction. And he worked in a business rife with sloth, rancor, addiction. How soon before he soured? How soon before he allowed himself to be overcome with bitterness and disillusionment? Any time the office told him was dropping a belt, he needed a solitary hour or two to go sit by himself in the stands, and in those lonely hours, he’d give into the certainty in his heart that he was only a few disappointments away from ending up in the trailer park, sitting on the couch beside his dad. Drunk, mean and unhappy. 

He’d squandered the natural good he’d been blessed with. He needed to re-jigger his heart, shake out the sin, start again as good-hearted as he was on his first day running ring ropes. But that was the punishment of sin-- the way it changed a heart. He could no longer imagine ambition untainted by coveting, no longer trust himself or his motives. He wasn’t even sure if he longed to return to good for goodness’ sake or to prove to himself that goodness was his to hold again after so carelessly letting it go.

Life threw out so many moral dilemmas and so few moral no-brainers. AJ bowed his head and studied the crackles in the table's Formica. He traced a path along the rim of his plate, sort of a maze in the reverse, seeing how far his choices would take him across the table. Funny how people always called it being _trapped_ in a maze. A maze is nothing but options. He just had to make sure he was following a true path.  
　  
Knuckles from above blessed his head with a thunk. AJ whirled to face his baptizer, and Christian oozed into the booth beside him. "Tell Jesus you'll call him back."

AJ smoothed his hair, checking for bumps and hoping his swinging elbow would inspire Christian to move across the table. Christian didn't budge. He slung an arm around AJ's shoulders. His pit released an all-nighter’s worth of sleazy fumes. The morning sun hit Christian square on the back of the head, exposing the bald patches beneath that baby-chick haircut of his and rusting out his spray tan. 

"Hey!" Christian pointed at a scurrying waitress-- not the one who had brought AJ's eggs-- then pointed at the table. "Some coffee here." 

AJ twitched, trying to molt Christian’s arm but he was tar and feathers. "Please behave like someone taught you manners once."

"Never mind her. Vince made Chris an offer."

Sabin came to mind first, even though that was plum dumb. But Sabin was shoved out of the way real quick by Harris, swaying with whiskey and smiling like the world was finally about to pay up on what he thought it owed him. AJ’s heart thudded at the tempo of a tantrum. Harris wrestled like his bootlaces were tied together. He showed up to tapings half-in the-bag. At house shows, he hit on fourteen-year-olds. In the ring, he blew off calls and flubbed spots when he wasn’t booked to win. On the road---

AJ cut himself off right there. Feeling persnickety about Harris only allowed him to ignore the ominous and obvious: Daniels. 

The Fallen Angel was an instant feud for and ultimately a sacrifice to Undertaker's gimmick. AJ held that realization tight against his chest until he could breathe right. Wasn’t jealousy. AJ was grateful for that. Coveting contaminated too much of his heart lately. This pang was an ordinary despair. He loved Daniels. 

It wasn’t like they were listing each other as beneficiaries or finding them a courthouse in Iowa. Nothing that committed anyway. It hadn’t even been love at first sight. It took him years to see beyond the eyeliner and the heathen tattoo. Daniels hadn’t hurried past AJ’s Hollister t-shirts either. 

They crossed ways often enough, even outside TNA. Any Indy promoter who could afford one of them could afford both. Unless a hometown boy claimed the crowds’ love, he and Daniels got each other and the main event. Flip by flip, Daniels earned his spot as AJ’s favorite opponent--- they could tumble through complex bouts without saying a word; they could change the flow of a match on a shared wink, they could wrestle around chipped elbows and sprained ankles, updating one another with only few words Nothing close to love, even then. Only a glimmer of friendship outside of the ring. But they had buckets of affinity, trust and respect, and their moral compasses swung the same way: falling short of True North, but aiming hard. 

Love had itself a notion, though. It kept low while Daniels dallied his way through the ROH roster, and AJ figured out that it wasn’t just a decade of Sunday School lectures that kept him from fiddling with girls pre-marriage. That meant a few months of fretting about eternal burning. Love waited. Then gasoline hit three bucks a gallon, and one evening in Maryland, James Storm and his beater Chevy Suburban went from needing space and the open road to needing passengers willing to chip in gas money. 

Harris called shotgun, and AJ wound up in the backseat, wedged between an already sacked-out Jay Lethal and a wide-awake Christopher Daniels. Lethal snored. Daniels straightened a crease in his chinos. AJ held his breath, afraid Daniels would smell of voodoo, live chickens, sprinkled blood and cursed candles that burned with spiced blue-white flames. Wordless miles passed. Daniels looked to AJ, first at his knees, then his throat, lingering along AJ’s jaw before meeting his eyes. “So what made you sign with WCW but not WWE?”

AJ breathed out, and smelled only Harris’ Drakkar. Daniels smiled while AJ stumbled through a story about the fourth time his TV debut was bumped off the Nitro card. With a simple, “Were you there yet, when Luger accused Eddie and Chavo of funneling belt change info to Vince?” Daniels took the burden of conversation. AJ smiled too. All his life, AJ preferred listening--the lullaby in a 3 a.m replay of Sports Center, the comfort in bible passages read aloud in church, the thrill in an audience chanting his name. Daniels’ voice held no lullabies or bible verses. Thrills, earthy and sinuous, slithered among his words, flickering like a serpent’s tongue feeling for AJ’s heat. 

One hundred and thirty miles later, Storm steered them down the day’s last stretch of road. Daniels gossiped about Austin Aries, left knee bouncing in protest of the confinement from the long drive, still worrying that pants crease, hand so close to AJ, close enough to brush knuckles if AJ were to tilt his wrist. AJ’s hand tingled, and he decided that if he were about to give his soul to ash, the Almighty would warn him first with burnt fingers. 

That night, behind a ramshackle highway motel on the eastbound side of US 50, he and Daniels sat on a hill of brown grass, watching the last round of fireworks shooting above the county fair a couple miles down the road. AJ glanced at Daniels, then looked to the night sky full of falling red, white and blue stars, and reached out, ready to catch sparks bare-handed. 

They hadn’t wrestled in Salisbury since. AJ doubted they’d still be together next time they swung through. Love in this business had the expiration date of milk in gas stations. He had resigned himself to that, practiced squaring his shoulders to a hundred variations on the same sorrowful ending. Still, Daniels heading North, away from him, hurt like a trapped hiccup. 

Then, geez. His lungs relaxed in bitter relief. Forget Daniels. Forget Harris. Forget Sabin and Abyss and the rest. To Christian only one Chris mattered: Jericho. 

If Christian was capable of it, he was in love. AJ picked up on that dirty little secret the first time Christian won the world title. Post-show, inside Christian's private dressing room, Tomko, Rhyno and most of the Canadians guzzled supermarket champagne, while a few quiet doors down, in an empty communal locker room, Christian sat by his lonesome on a bench, towel draped over his bare shoulder, sweat gleaming like armor under the lights, blade job still trickling down his cheek, talking sweet with Jericho on his cell. 

Maybe Christian would head North too. That cheered AJ. "Sounds like they can use him up ther--"

"I want him here." 

Everyone did. Cornette. Jarrett. Dixie. She'd match Vince's offer, no matter if she had to ask half the locker room to sell a kidney, even Konnan who was down to his last good one. Heat and guilt lit up the back of AJ's neck. Thinking unkind was the same as speaking unkind, and he was a nicer person than that, so AJ made himself ask, "Does Jericho want to be here?" 

"I've been selling him on it." Christian reached over AJ's food and rifled through the sugar dish. He wouldn't look at AJ, instead he kept tab on his coffee's progress, smooshing and extending a packet of Splenda like an accordion and waiting for praise AJ wasn't about to give. Finally Christian prompted, "I told him it'd be worth it just hear Trips and Batista go apeshit."

"That's your hardsell?"

Christian scowled, watching as the old-timers across the way got their coffee and a little chit-chat from the waitress. "Batista's a chode." 

"I meant, the best here is that it's not the worst there?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

AJ went back to his eggs, poking around and taking tiny bites, same way he and brothers ate when their folks were having another scream-fight. Maybe Jericho coming around would be good thing. Christian behaved whenever he was on the phone with Jericho. Like a mean bone never grew in his body and his marrow was made of honey. And without Christian goading him on, Tomko was content to sit around backstage doing Suduko, drinking Diet Pepsi and hardly ever smashing in anyone's face. 

But, getting Jericho here meant having Jericho here, and Jericho here meant yet another guy skipping to the front of the line for a title run. "Then you oughta stop putting it to Shelley."

Christian started, gave AJ a centimeter of space. "That is none of your business."

"Jericho might consider it his, what with all you're hoping for."

"What am I hoping for, AJ? Decent competition? Am I hoping for decent competition? A match against someone other than fucking Abyss? Am I hoping for that?'

AJ bit his cheek, just to keep himself from rattling off a list of decent competition. As jealous and fed-up as he got with the boys sometimes, he wasn't going to lay out an opening for Christian to run them down. So instead, he shoveled in a mouthful of eggs, and said, "Not many guys here know how to work a WWE-style match." 

Looking at Christian was like watching plywood peeling off window frames during a hurricane. The diner darkened. The air went as murky as a mud puddle and AJ felt up to his socks in floodwater. Then all at once, the sunshine returned. Christian laughed, and said, gentle as a breeze. "Nice turn-around on that. Tomko been teaching you how to get in a snit?”

"Picked it up hanging around you." Except all hanging around with Christian ever did was made AJ feel country dumb, made him feel like he still lived in the trailer park and never had a single dream about doing anything except clocking in and out at the tar factory. AJ rubbed his palms on his jeans, and glanced at his reflection to check for egg yolk on his chin. "Ever miss that? Ever miss up North?"

"The money," Christian stretched his arm along the back of the booth, and smiled in way that said: ‘I've made millions; you've made nothing.’But the rest of it? All that 'superstar' shit. Not at all. I don't miss trying to work a decent match with meatheads. I don't miss having to kiss road agents' asses. I don't miss being stuck in some germy children’s hospital all day, making smiley for Little Jimmy Wheelchair."

"Aw. C'mon. Don't get on cripple kids now."

"Edge," The name came out tangled in an unforgiving laugh. "Me and Edge saw this episode of South Park once. Cartman booked a fight between a couple of 'tards. Kept yelling 'cripple fight!' Ever since then I can't do a Make-A-Wish without thinking 'cripple fight' the whole time. 'Specially if there's a nerved-out kid around with dance-y arms and drool." 

"Christian, I'm going to double-up on praying for you."

"Save it for the crippled kids I got on." 

AJ threw an apology heavenward and went back to his eggs, but they weren't so shiny anymore. Cold now, and tasting like someone else’s leftovers from the day before yesterday. He stared at the table, picking a new path through the maze of crackles while he chewed and got himself brave. “About my title shot.”

“What about it?”

"You still owe me one.”

"Get in line, buddy."

AJ winced at Christian's wording. "You want Jericho here and I want a title shot. Let's deal."

“Let’s deal? Let’s deal? What the fuck, AJ?”

The waitress came by just then, sullenly plopping down Christian’s coffee without so much as a ‘Here ya go‘. That bought him no time at all. AJ rubbed his sternum like he’d swallowed wrong, and finally he just said, “All I’m asking is if you’re going to follow through on what we agreed on. It’s been months now.”

"Oh, so I guess I agreed to more than a title shot, huh? I guess I agreed to doing everything your way, when you want to do it. When it's convenient for AJ. We made a deal; I didn't sign up for indentured servitude. Learn some patience." 

"All I've been doing with you is waiting."

"Backstage segments on every show. Live mikes. Tagging in main events. Starring in pay-per-views. That's what you consider waiting?"

Carrots before a dumb mule. That ticked him off the most. Not that Christian backed out, but that Christian thought he could be gyped. He’d had the tag belts before. He had Big Gold before. Without Christian. AJ's heart turned into a panicked pigeon, the way it always did when disappointment was imminent. The fluttering choked him. "We could work on getting me named Number One Contender. Daniels had this idea where once I get the belt I start dodging you the way you dodg--"

"When I care what a bald little cunt has to say, I'll turn on the Playboy channel."

AJ clenched his fork, and his knuckles cracked on their own. "Don't be so nasty. Don't be so nasty every single time you open your mouth." 

“Sorry, dude.” Christian smirked. “Forgot Daniels is your boo.” 

He could fling “boo” right back in Christian’s face. Christian didn’t want Jericho around to teach him armbars. But, anything he dared say would get twisted all around and turned inside out and sooner or later Jesus would get dragged into it, and there had already been too much noise this morning. “So what do you need me for in all this? Jericho isn’t waiting on my permission.”

“I need you whispering in Dixie‘s ear. I need you to get her to open that checkbook of hers. Wide. Jericho-Wide.”

“Nothing I got to say gets heard by Dixie.”

“Ask her next time she‘s paying for one of your haircuts.”

AJ’s cheeks felt razor burned. They’d be telling that story at his funeral. Nothing about his high-flying or cage matches or the Styles Clash. Not even any joking around about his stupid pilot gimmick from WCW. Just a bunch of old boys standing around with beer guts, bald spots and crashed-out knees, gossiping about haircuts.

“She did that once. Once.” 

“No one’s judging you for it, AJ.“ Christian said, each syllable falling like a gavel. “Gotta be a better deal than sucking off McMahon or Lawler.” 

Lawler. Odd name to pull out of the bingo hopper first. Considering WWE had a bevy of boogeymen plenty worse. Christian just blurted out Lawler’s name like he hadn’t thought about it all. The depraved stories Christian probably had about Lawler and baby-faced rookies. AJ shuddered. 

The shudder stopped short. Creepy-Crawlies scampered up AJ’s neck and down his ears, muffling the soft-spoken memory of his momma mumbling a worn-through affirmation to herself while trying to make their shabby clothes look acceptable for church: lies wear ruffles; the truth shows up casual. 

AJ couldn’t look Christian in the eye right then. He dipped his head, and out of habit, his hands came together. 

Quick as a roach, Christian was on him, pinning his wrist to the table. "Is pointing out my blowjobs pardoning any of yours?” 

He would not spit out “Did Lawler pay for any of your haircuts?” AJ sucked in his bottom lip, vowing right then to put the brakes on his and Daniels’ latest means of killing time during car rides: coaching AJ on The Dignified Arts of Verbal Sparring and Silencing Cretins. For the most damning comebacks, Daniels told him to simply, “agree with the premise but return the onus back onto your opponent.” AJ asked what onus meant, then looked it up later to make sure. 

It didn’t mean a kind of donkey, which had been AJ’s first guess. Onus meant blame, but fancier. Likely there were other details involved-- Daniels dealt in two-faced vocabulary, the kind that lured with sweet, convivial sentiments, and then pounced on the first stutter. Christian spoke it too. 

AJ jerked his arm but Christian held tight and asked, “What are the Lord’s feelings on sodomy?”

“Nothing about it in the Commandments.” AJ said. Half a stone tablet about coveting though. A bit of his heart scarred over, and he asked again, “About my title shot.” 

“Fuck your title shot.”

_Is that what Vince said to you before you walked?_ The words tasted oily. He could let them slip so easily. This time AJ jerked harder. “Quit making it so hard to keep a civil tongue with you.” 

“Is your tongue civil when it’s slopping on Daniel’s cock?”

“Even I could have come up with that one. Can we change the subject?”

Christian took a deep breath and ended it with a harsh smile. His voice went high and sing-song-y. “About my title shot.”

AJ pushed around an egg. The yolk popped and bled all over his fork. "I never thought they'd let you hold the title this long."

“You thought I’d have trouble hanging with the luminaries stumbling around the ring here?”

"Wasn't nothing about you or against you. Just thought they were using you as bait for Edge."

Christian scowled and he swung into the booth on the other side of the table. The air conditioning kicked up like a bad wind and the sunlight went hush again. AJ blurted out, "But I figured you'd talk yourself into a couple of opportunities."

"So I'm all talk?"

AJ held his tongue. No more blurting and panicking and trying to appease. He stirred his fork around in his breakfast like a plate of half-gone eggs had precedence over Christian's feelings. "You talk too much, yeah. But I was going to praise your brains. It's just a matter of time before more guys figure out what you did: if you’ve already got money, it's a pretty sweet deal down here."

"You're scared shitless about that, aren't you?"

"Yeah," AJ said. It felt good to say it. Truth-sharin' always did. "Kurt coming in. Sting making himself comfortable. Nash still around after everything... Back in 'CW, I saw what happens when you try to build a brand on guys in it for the easy payday."

“Which is it, AJ?” Christian leaned forward, smiling like he already knew the joke but was anticipating the punch line anyway. “Is the easy money in the big company up North or down here? Can’t be both or the Mighty Mississippi would overflow with the run-off from our joyful tears.”

“You know what I meant.”

“The paydays aren’t easy anywhere. “ Christian crossed his arms, hands squeezing his elbows. “Don’t shit on the guys who left this business with broken backs and broken necks.”

“I’m not disrespecting anyone’s sacrifices.”

“So where do theirs rank compared to yours?”

Stupid onus. “We all have our burdens to bear, Christian.” 

Christian snorted. “You pissin' yourself over Chris showing up is what Cornette wants. Gets you good and scared and ready to tow any line he and Russo and Dixie think to draw. Why do you think Dixie took on an insurance liability like Kurt? Or why she bought you a haircut when you were content wearing that bowl cut you were wandering around with. She knew it would start shit." 

“Not everyone is like you. Not everyone enjoys spreading discord and strife like it’s butter on toast.” 

“Think for a minute. You think Vince and Dixie don't like it when we're tearing into each other like dogs fighting over scraps?”

“It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“But it is.” Christian reached for his phone, scrolled through a run of three-word messages, one of them making him smile sweet. “And it’s in a lot people’s best interest to keep it that way.”

“It doesn’t have to be… for me, for Daniels, for the boys who were here before TNA had a ring. I just want it to be about here. TNA. Nothing to do with beating the E. Nothing to do with whatever’s going on up North. It can be about right here. TNA. I want it to be about being good. Honest competition, as much as it can be. Merit instead of us tearing each other apart over titles and politics. Gold doled out for putting on a good show, for doing innovative stuff or getting a crowd full of crash-test dummies riled up and cheerin'."

“In other words, you getting the belt and keeping it ‘cause no one is as innovative or beloved as you.”

"It's not that. You know it's not that." AJ felt like he was charging forward, pleading maybe, falling on his face. "I had gold before. Three times. Then Cornette came along."

Christian glanced at AJ, his smile sliding from sweet to smug. “The guy gets hard-ons pushing Vince’s cast-offs. What do you want me to say?”

“Are the rumors true? Did you walk because Vince told you the only way you’d get gold is by growing a half a foot?”

“True or not, does it matter? Smaller dudes get evidence to justify their whining, big dudes get a good laugh. Everyone leaves happy. “

“Happy you left?”

“Easier than growing half a foot.” 

“Or getting folks to believe in honest competition or merit or--” 

Christian stuck his hand in AJ‘s face, waving it around until AJ hushed. "Next time you're thinking about hopping on top of a soap box, remember this: when you open your mouth, everybody hears banjos." 

“Is it Snipe On AJ Day?”

“Is it? I forgot my day planner back at the hotel.”

“You got my title shot written down on that day planner?” 

Christian glared over his phone, his thumb rapidly erasing an unsent text. “That thing we got planned for Angle backstage tonight? Me and Tomko got that. You can just concentrate on your match. You know, putting on a good show and getting yourself cheered for all the innovative shit you do.”

Air whistled past as AJ felt himself plummet down the card. He’d land with an inglorious butt-plant, right smack into a feud with Chris Sabin. Nothing against Sabin-- AJ liked wrestling Sabin. No one made him lose his breath quicker. But their matches wouldn’t be anything but PPV filler; just two dudes tumbling around in the background while Tenay waxed ballistic about whatever Nash or Angle just spent twenty minutes droning on and on about. The only TV time he’d get out of it would be a half dozen unfunny skits featuring him at Great Clips with Sabin’s mom.

A busboy and his plastic tub of coffee mugs clattered by, leaving behind the smell of wet toast and wet dishrag. AJ scrunched low in his seat. He’d have to tell Daniels. Daniels would know soon enough anyway. Daniels could figure out an entire booking meeting by who wrestled the curtain jerker at a Saturday house show. Daniels had warned him. Didn’t lecture or frown, just brought his cheek close to AJ’s heart, the way he did when he was really listening to what AJ had to say and asked AJ if his plan was something he’d feel good about following through to the end. AJ mumbled he didn’t have much choice now. Daniels’ thumb rubbed over his knuckles, one at a time, slowly, softly like there were too many bad outcomes to consider, then he asked slowly, softly, “Can you live with it going sidewise on you?” 

He’d confess in the locker room. Give Daniels’ disgust an open door. Break-ups always happened in the locker room. Easy enough to have it out, blow off rage in the ring, then go off in separate ways at the end of the night. AJ squirmed some, not letting the ache get settled in. He was losing Daniels anyway; he should have wished the big money contract on him. That’s what a good person would have done. 

He wasn’t good anymore. And he wasn’t going to be champion for a good long while either. He traded his dreams and true friends for fly-by-night hopes and the false rewards of coveting. 

Christian crooked two fingers and beckoned over the waitress. She scurried off, behind the counter and busied herself with ketchup bottles. Christian muttered, “Fuck her.” 

He scratched at his scruff and asked AJ, “What would you do with a title shot anyway?”

“C’mon Christian. The match we’d have… you and me, we’ve wrestled the black off the ropes of half the Indy rings in this country.”

“What’s it gonna look like to Cornette if I suddenly start shit-canning all his Imma-Show-Vince ideas, and basically tell him we’re giving his gold to the boss’s plaything.” 

“Real cute.”

"There’s your title shot, AJ. You want me to say it out loud so I can be the bad guy, so you can claim the thought never crossed your angelic mind? She wanted herself a babyfaced pool boy. So boyish and cute and safe. An Abercrombie bubble butt and your little pinecone of a dick. What she wanted out of you, you were too stupid to put up. Boy toys get good money, McMahon kind of money. Boy toys get belts." 

“Is that how it works?”

“Save the sarcasm for the professionals.” 

“Christian, I’m trying to be serious here. The match we could have. Think about it. You’ve got the pull to make it happen.”

“I like it when you honey-coat your tongue before sticking up my ass. Makes it extra sweet.”

“If I wasn’t being straight up with you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. If all I wanted was to brown nose my way into a title shot, I’d be hitting up Angle or Booker T. You’re not the only one with Cornette’s ear.” 

Christian could sic a scowl on him all he wanted. It was true. All the Big Names got to pick their matches, at least until they proved themselves as much of a waste of money as the last Big Name. Most of them looked right past AJ. They liked going over on young muscleheads. Matt Morgan, especially. He had WWE stamped on his passport. 

If Morgan was out nursing one of his bi-monthly injuries, AJ hustled to finagle his way into an X-Division dust up. Worse than being skipped over by Big Names was having to wrestle Big Names, having to figure out how to get a match out of guys hauling around thirty extra pounds and creaking with ring rust. Stepping in a ring with them was like wrestling a bear, all that sluggish slapping and pawing. On the rare occasions they wanted to work babyface for the t-shirt money, AJ was stuck playing the snot-nosed brat schooled by the vet. More often, they were milking a ten-minute membership to one of b-squad NWOs and AJ had to fake quaking before the mighty power of Gramps Too Sweet.

Not so with Christian. Christian had not been cast out from WWE’s promise land; he’d walked out the gate. Still lean and fierce, bent on creating more glory days, not just cashing in on bygones. AJ still got a jolt out of their first match, an afternoon gig at a North Florida roadhouse. Paid next to nothing, but it was the halfway point between two good-paying jobs, twelve hours apart. Hotel money, Storm said when selling them on the stop, and maybe free beer. Wouldn’t have been the first time AJ wrestled for his supper. 

The promoter, a mange-bearded redneck booked every match the same: small cruiser against gnarly, overfed local. The outcomes didn’t vary either: the cruiser ate mat. The main event was supposed to be Christian versus King Porker of local boys. As soon as the promoter lumbered into the empty office they were using as a dressing room, Christian handed him the match list and shook his head. “Find another punching bag for your headliner. I’m wrestling AJ.” 

The promoter opened his cashbox, pulled all the twenties aside, and paid out Storm and Harris in fives and tens. He picked at a cold sore above his lip, and said to Christian. “Folks around here pay for beat downs.” 

Christian shoved his boots and gear into his duffle and asked, “You want me on your card or not.” 

The promoter squinted back and forth between AJ and Christian for a bit, then gathered up his cash box and notebook. “Okay, okay Mr. WWF. Just keep any hanky-panky between you and your boyfriend out of my ring.” 

Christian unpacked his spangled trunks and hoodie, and shot AJ a glance. “I’m going over.” 

AJ cocked a shoulder, too lazy to shrug. Wins, loses never mattered to him in the sticks. Just the hundred bucks that might or might not be coming at the end of the night. The crowd out front seemed here pretty much because they’d been kicked out of the VFW and didn’t like dealing with the shirts and shoes insisted on by the American Legion. Poor Lethal wrestled to dead silence. Same for Sabin until a waitress in a purple tube top yelled out, “Two for ones!” After a half-hour of that, the crowd found some rowdy, screaming “Atta boy!” at the locals and “Brokeback!“ at Storm, and “Giggles!” at Shelley. Shelley hollered “Deliverance!” back at them, and beer bottles started flying. Most of the glass was swept up by the time AJ and Christian stepped out for their match. The broom stood waiting, though. 

Not good, and the ring was worse. Wet. Streaked with old bloodstains and mold. Bowed in the middle and missing a few boards. Christian stomped around, testing the hold. AJ touched nothing and wondered how quickly he could eat a pin and still get paid. 

Early on, Christian tripped him on a pass. AJ dive-bombed the ropes, deciding to risk whiplash over contracting only the Lord knows what from that mat. The ropes stretched a good two feet under his weight, sling-shotting the broom into the ring. It rolled, slow and clumsy as a rookie, into the center. They played hopscotch around it at first. Christian took AJ down with a rear naked choke, and AJ, amidst their flailing kicked away the broom. It caught on a ring post and rolled right back at them. Christian nodded towards the ropes, and AJ got it-- take a dive over the top and expect the broom to follow him. Christian Irish Whipped him into all four ring posts, Stinger Splashed him for the exclamation point, then tossed him overboard. AJ belly-flopped to the mat outside. He played dead while Christian climbed the turnbuckle and alternated between riling the crowd and poking AJ with that broomstick. AJ squealed, arms and legs splaying into a giant X. Cheers told him Christian was posing and holding that broom aloft. AJ knew it’d be coming down on him and wiggled himself into a proper target. 

Instead, Christian swatted his rear. That sent AJ scrambling on all fours. The broom gave chase, walloping the hide off of him with every scoot. AJ circled the ring, letting all sides get a look. Out of breath, he holed up by the ring steps where Christian and the broom couldn’t get to him. He grabbed the ring apron like security blanket, curling up sissy-boy style and hiding his face. Boos filled the building. Beer splashed his boots.

AJ grinned, sucking in big gulps of air, his heart thudding like a marching band, his head whirling with camaraderie and respect. This is wrestling. AJ grabbed the broom. Christian shrugged at the crowd, and with a heel-hatin’ scowl yanked it back. AJ play-acted splinters, even running over to a grandmotherly woman in the crowd and showing her his owie. She clocked him with an empty beer mug, and while he stumbled around the ring area, dazed from Budweiser-brand betrayal, Christian chucked the broom at him. AJ dodged it, slid into the ring and charged Christian, and when they locked-up, AJ grinned, halfway in love. 

All that first winter, he and Christian and that broom wrestled each other on every card they shared. They tore up every prairie town squatting along the South Platte, every factory town still piping around the Great Lakes, every hillbilly town whooping it up among the Carolina pines. The more feeble the gate, the more Christian was willing to ham it up-- the shrillest screams after low-blows, the silliest duck walks after an old-fashioned rope-crotching, the sleaziest chat-ups of ring girls which always resulted in super-sized slaps. Once he even signaled for a break in the match, stood in the middle of the ring and faked a giant sneeze, then somersaulted over the ropes and used AJ’s abandoned t-shirt as a snotrag. 

Anytime they lucked into sizable crowds, Christian shut down. Suddenly, he was a slumming Superstar slouching through autograph sessions and snarling at kids stupid enough to ask about Edge. AJ left him to his snooty self on those nights, and waited for the nights when the entire crowd could have rode an elevator together, the nights they wrestled in armories and small-town fair grounds, in short-ceilinged gymnasiums cluttered with folding chairs and fat kids in ROH hoodies, in lop-sided rings crammed in between support pillars. He watched Christian on those nights, pre-match, peeking out at those run-down, jimmy-legged Indy rings, counting the steps between mis-strung ropes, crunching mat geometry with the same eagerness most guys applied to calculating their take of the gate. 

AJ wrapped his hands around his cup, needing a tether to the here and now. "You care, Christian. You care about good matches. Don't pretend you don't."

"Don't pretend you do. Otherwise, all you'd care about is how many stars some turd on the internet gave your last match. Either you want pixels or you want gold."

"I want both."

Christian snorted. “Both. You know what would have you holding more gold than you'd know what to do with? If early on someone called you on your shit… Cornette, Dixie, Russo, it's not their problem you're a chicken-shit little diva. So worried the E wouldn't handle you right. How they been handling you around here lately?” 

AJ’s fingers felt bloodless as he dumped sugar into his coffee. Christian pushed the cup aside. “Do you like playing my lackey? The chicken suit, did you like that bit? Is that showcasing your talent? Is that justifying all the praise you got from internet turds all those years ago when you turned down your chance to be a jobber up North? Did it help you sleep at night knowing they labeled you the righteous taker of high roads? Still on that high road, or do you just look like a chump who passed up a ton of Vince's money and got jobbed out to Angle anyways?" 

“I wouldn’t have made it as far as jobbing to Angle. Not without some kind of name already, not with WCW stink on me. Mass hired, mass fired. No vignettes, barely any ring time. I’d get a celebrity chef gimmick and some joke-name mash-up copped from Happy Days and Melrose Place, and then because they didn’t also give me a burro to help me get that load over, I’d sink.”

“A chef would crumble. Flake. Go stale. Also, he‘d have a kitchen boy, not a burro.”

“Then Creative wouldn’t have anything for me, and adios AJ. Best case scenario, I’m here anyway with no hope of ever getting a big payday. Worst case, I’m doing Indies on weekends and stocking shelves at Wal-Mart Monday through Friday.”

Christian leaned over his coffee, covering the cup with his hand like AJ was going to sneak in there with a straw and slurp. “They wouldn’t give you weekends off.”

“All the guys the McMahons brought in from ‘CW. Who’s left? Helms, a diva or two? The only one getting any gold is Rey. “AJ fidgeted. His napkin slipped off his lap. “He waited on signing.”

“Oh. You think you’re up there with Rey Mysterio now?” Christian slunk low in the booth, his legs hogging the space beneath the table, his feet trapping AJ’s. “So how come you haven’t sent Titan Tower any tapes now that you’ve made such a huge name for yourself wrestling Abyss and Wildcat Harris?”

“Maybe Dixie and Vince can do a trade. Me for Jericho.”

Christian leaned forward, rubbing his fingers together like he was sharpening them. “Admit it, AJ. Easiest way to be sure of yourself is never to test your decisions. Have you ever asked yourself: why you wrestle? The deep-down-in-your-heart reason. Pretend it’s Jesus asking.” 

AJ's mouth went to dust. The poor-kid truth had him in Christian's clutches all along. "I got into wrestling for the money."

"Well then, I guess you fucked that up." 

“What brought you in?” 

Christian blinked. “Edge.”

AJ jiggled his legs, anxious to shake off the half-dozen comebacks Christian dropped into his lap. He would not reward honesty with burial. Quickly, before he repeated Christian‘s words, he rushed out with “How come everybody always asks what got you in, but they never ask what makes you stay?’ 

“’Cause for most of the boys, they don’t want you to stay. One less guy in the way of the gold.” 

“Think they thought that about you up North?”

“Used to.” Christian pushed his empty coffee cup away. “Then I realized dynamite matches count for shit with Vince. I wasn‘t anyone he wanted to anoint.”

“Is that what made you leave?”

“Me knowing wasn’t the problem. Half the roster up there would lay down for Ronald McDonald at Summer Slam to know exactly where they stand with Vince. It was the other guys knowing I wasn‘t ever going to carry gold… Fuck them.”

The waitress stopped over with a fresh coffeepot. She refilled AJ’s cup and snubbed Christian except to leave his bill. Christian ditched his phone and muttered awhile before mining his pockets for cash. Up came twenties and a meager batch of change. Christian counted out a stack of quarters and dimes and pennies, staring down the coins like glaring at them would make them be fruitful and multiply. When three bouts of re-stacking them didn’t increase the fold, he dribbled the change into his pocket and reluctantly pulled out a five. He set it atop his receipt. “I left because all I wanted to do was stay. I was so close to signing that joke of a contract they offered me.” 

AJ scrounged around for the napkin that fell. Feeble as he was at slinging put-downs during promos, he was triple-feeble at summoning salves and psalms meaningful to a wronged heart. He tried anyway, the words feeling worn-out and kyped from dollar store greeting cards. “Christian. No one who wrestles like you sho--” 

Christian crumpled his hands over his ears. “You saw it back then. A shitty contract is the same as no contract. Both grind it in that outside of this, we got nothing. Keeps us desperate to be on the road with the boys, desperate just to hang. It’s profitable to keep us lonely. I am so goddamn tired of being lonely.” 

AJ traced the ridges of his silverware slowly, softly, same as Daniels’ thumb sliding over his knuckles. “What if Jericho doesn’t want to come?”

“He‘ll come.” Christian scowled hard to cut off the tremble along his jaw. “Eddie and Benoit are gone. Lance and me are gone. There’s nothing up there for him now. Other than money. Make Dixie understand that. Nothing but money is keeping Jericho from lighting this place up.” 

“You know they’ll make you drop the belt so they can give it to Jericho.” 

“Tell me you don’t want to see Daniels first thing when you head behind the curtain after fucking up a move.” 

AJ looked past Christian, out the window at the Orlando sunshine, hazy and beige, heavy as oil, seeping into the bleached asphalt. He wanted Daniels first thing no matter what. The nights when he flew as proud as an F-16 and landed as light as a goodnight kiss; the nights when everything went crooked, and he stumbled through the curtain with wobbly ankles and blurry vision, only wanting a safe lap to rest his head. Christian deserved a safe lap too. “They want Jericho more than they want anyone already here.”

Christian smiled, his eyes darkening with affirmation instead of relief. AJ realized then Christian hadn’t shown up seeking help, hadn’t freed any long locked-away secrets of his heart. Christian was working him to figure out how many zeros Dixie was willing to write on Jericho’s contract. AJ wasn’t privy to Dixie’s business, but he knew the answer anyway: as many zeros as Jericho wanted.

And if Christian had spoken it true, if it was only a matter of zeros, then Jericho would be here by the next set of tapings. He’d run in after AJ and Tomko bungled a save, and while they stumbled around the ring, punch drunk and befuddled, Jericho and Christian would clear Indy house. They’d hold each other’s hands high, gloat for the audience, then hug. The next couple shows would feature Russo’s usual run of backstage high jinks and feel-good main event wins, maybe Jericho and Christian would even hold the tag titles for a couple of weeks during buddy movie phase of the angle. Then Jericho would have words with whoever was holding the belt-- Angle, probably. Jericho would get his gold. Again, he and Christian would stand together in the ring, hands high, audience cheering. No hug this time. A sucker punch, a face plant, and a heel turn for Christian, and the title would ping-pong between him and Jericho until they scampered back to Vince for a Wrestlemania payday. 

AJ closed his eyes and saw the Great Clips logo. Christian got everything he wanted out of him this morning. Christian was leaving with Jericho. AJ, with nothing, no title shot, not even the hope of one. 

Christian grabbed his phone, re-starting his assembly line of texts. “When Jericho comes in, all of us will roll in big-time house show money.” 

Oldest line in wrestling, and Christian just used it on him. If Christian wasn’t going to bother with a fresh lie, AJ wasn’t going to bother with stale outrage. AJ opened his eyes. The sunlight shifted, shining hard through the window “It’s not going to work out like that.” 

Christian didn‘t even bother to look up from his texting. “Hey, eat up. I want to get outta here.”

AJ bent his head, looked down so he wouldn’t have to squint against the sunlight. Christian's napkin covered the crackles on the table. No more options. He took up his fork and attended to the room-temperature remains of his meal, the eggs that tasted like already-chewed gum, the ham like wasted sweat, and the toast like sugar-coated nothing. He swallowed it all. The good people of the world ate breakfast.


End file.
